Tarot
by Emperor of Aces
Summary: Lonely and mad at his co-workers, Die consults his Tarot cards for advice. But, when the answer isn't what he wants to hear, he throws a huge fit. Luckily, Clover shows up with something that calms him down. Die/Clover


"Tarot"

All of them were idiots. He could not stand their incompetence, how they were all so detached from the inner workings of the universe despite existing on its very fringes. His lot stood toe-to-toe with Death, walked hand-in-hand with Time, and marched along the glittering tapestry of space, stardust rippling outward at the heels of their green-painted shoes, and yet, they still didn't believe Die. They called him silly and radical, a neurotic kook putting his faith in nothing but figments. But he knew the truth. He knew it was them who were the fools.

Die gripped his pale, linen doll, holding it up so he could stare madly into its expressionless face. In the other hand he held a pin by its round head, which he rolled thoughtfully between his thumb and forefinger. Red and adorned with a number seven, it was Crowbar's pin, and Die wanted nothing more than to stick it into the doll's sawdust-stuffed body and jump to some far-off time-line where his leader was no more. Crowbar was the last to chastise him for his 'silly practices' and it would feel wonderful to stand over Crowbar's corpse and gloat. Who would be the fool then? Who would it be, who would it be? Certainly not Die.

But Crowbar wasn't the only one who deserved punishment. Fin and Trace had taken turns snickering at him, Itchy flat-out informed him that his work was built on imaginary stuff, and even Doze – usually the most understanding of the bunch – told him a little more rationality in his life wouldn't hurt. Die would bet that if he approached the others on these matters, they would respond much the same. Even with open eyes, they were all so blind. He wanted them all dead, all gone, so that he may be at once finally at peace in his solitude.

Die grabbed a silvery handful of his colleagues' pins, thinking he would stick them in all together, but then he stopped. He considered the doll, the pins, himself. Was solitude really what his patchwork heart desired? He thought so, and yet his hand trembled, hesitating to push the pin home. His mind told him he would find comfort in loneliness, but that cruel thing in his chest which pulsed with resonant beats said otherwise.

He set the doll down on his mahogany desk, and removed his Tarot deck from the draw. As though handling an object of priceless glass, he unwrapped it from its silken covering then began to shuffle the deck, his spindly fingers moving light and fast.

The cards were another thing his colleagues brushed off as fraudulent, but Die knew that the cards were as real as the floor beneath his feet and the walls erected around him. But, most of all, he knew the cards never lied. They would tell him what he desired to know. When his heart and mind collided and spewed forth a nebulous morass of emotions, it was always the cards that would set him straight.

Die's hands began to tingle as the forces willed him to halt his shuffling at once. He complied willingly, and sliced the deck into three even piles that he placed before him on the desk. The past, the present, and the future.

From the leftmost pile, he drew a card, flipping it over so that he could see the past event that would set into motion the miserable present. His face molded itself into a deep frown when he found himself staring into the clock-like image of the Wheel of Fortune. Destiny? Change? Luck? He picked at his lower lip with his unkempt nails, puzzled by the card's appearance, for if he had experienced any sort of star-scrawled luck, he was completely unaware of its presence.

He could dwell on an unexpected reading for hours, that he knew all too well from past experiences, so he diverted his attention by giving it to the center pile. The present, the pile that would advise him on what he was to do about his foolish associates. Would he kill them all now and stay forever away in his time-wrought confinement, or would he choose a different path? Moreover, would a different path choose _him_?

Die flipped the surface card over, and he was faced with the image of an ethereal winged figure holding a goblet in its hands. Temperance. The card of balance, healing, and understanding.

A shiver trickled down his back, sending chilly little quakes through his lanky limbs. He felt the cards were telling him something of great importance, but he did not understand. The answers seemed to have no relation to his initial question, to the dilemma he faced with his gangmates, and yet he longed to understand their meaning. He _needed_ to know.

With a smooth, eager motion, Die revealed the final card; the card of the future. He froze, his wide, green eyes seemingly blank as he stared in shock at what was revealed.

The Lovers.

Die's body was suddenly overcome with shakes, and slowly his stoic face molded itself into a visage of white-hot rage. He swung his arm out in a sweeping motion, sending the cards fluttering off the desk and onto the floor in a flurry of paper. Die then sank to the floor, his face shielded by his spindly hands, and began to scream.

"Even the very spirits themselves mock me!" Tears flowed from his eyes to dampen his palms. "I can hear their voices l-laughing at me. S-So many...laughing, t-teasing. Why? _Why_?"

The cards sat silent on the floor. They offered him no answer.

Die sat up, his limbs feeling weak and drained of their energy. Curse the blasphemous shades! All he wished to do was defend them, and now they mocked him as well. He had had it, all the pins would plunge and now the cards would suffer as well.

Forsaking any attachment he once had for his cards, he picked up the Lovers and tore it right down its center. He was done, done with everyone. The cards, his colleagues, the spirits, everyone, and he vented his rage on another card, caring not for what it was. Before he knew it, he was sitting in a colorful pile of Tarot confetti, and just as he was about to snatch his doll off his desk, a knock sounded at his door.

Hunched over the desk, he froze, staring wide-eyed like a frightened animal confronted by a predator. "G-Go away! I want no company!"

"Die?" A soft, little voice. Cheery and slightly accented. "I'm really sorry to bother you right now, but I have something important for you. I would bring it to Stitch, but I think you would benefit from it most of all."

Benefit? Die scoffed aloud at the notion. The only thing he could benefit from right now was the collective termination of his colleagues. But Die was curious, always curious, and the possibility of gaining something even slightly beneficial was too alluring for someone such as himself to ignore.

"F-Fine. If it is _that_ important, then you m-may come in."

He unlocked the knob and then began working on the series of deadbolts arranged along the side of the door. A man with everything to hide could never have enough deadbolts.

When the last silver chain was dangling, Die pushed the door outward and scowled down at Clover's smiling face. "What?" He gave a contemptuous sniff.

"I...Well..." His arms struggled to hold a bulky cardboard box, its sides dotted with openings like bullet-holes. Something shuffled inside. "Quarters found her today while driving and we kind of decided we couldn't just leave her there. Him with his whole, 'no one gets left behind' business."

He offered the box up to Die, who took it with nervous hands.

"What is it?" Die cocked an eyebrow and regarded the box with disdain. It was stained with dirt, and he could smell the faint iron odor of blood.

"Why don't you open it up and see?"

"Alright, alright, fine." He scurried over to his bed and set the box down on the disheveled covers. He motioned for Clover to join him. "Come now, you may enter. Just close the door behind you."

Clover did so in silence, then he took a seat besides Die on the bed, watching the other man open the box.

When he unveiled what lay within, Die gasped aloud as his breath caught in his chest. The little tri-eyed feline looked terrible, its back leg a crimson mound of crushed, pulverized meat from which leaked crimson blood. It stared up with its three doeish eyes, asking help me, help me, help me, without actually saying a word, and as Die stared at its little face, the fur matted and dull with filth, all he could think of was Isis. Isis, his little baby kitty, who loved him and nobody but him. Isis who was also hit by a car; who was crushed, murdered, smeared across the road like a piece of shit and there had been nothing he could do but sit there and cry, and cry. Because she was dead. Because he was alone. No more Isis, no more love for him. Only silence, and solitude, and little ghosts incarcerated in cards whose smoky forms would swirl out of their prisons and dance around his head while whispering to him things only he could hear.

But now there was this little being with its grey fur and its three eyes, and it was calling to him. It was alone, as was he. Hurt and alone, and Die saw in it a twisted mirror of himself, who felt the same, and who wished to no longer feel pain, or hatred, or the insanity brought on by an overdose of solitude. The little mutant cat pulled taught all the right strings in his blackened heart.

With quivering fingers, Die reached out and touched the cat's face, her fur snarly and coarse. She did not resist. He hadn't expected her to. Die had a way with animals, especially the injured ones, for he fixed them quite often with his small knowledge of white magic, and unlike people, they could see it. His obsession with death did not exclude the celebration and preservation of life.

"B-but why me?" He regarded Clover with a look that was hard, but not angry. Warily curious. "Why not Stitch? I can help her, and, yes, I will, but...Why?"

He removed his purple bowler hat and folded his hands in his lap, his face looking downward. "Well, you always looked at Isis like she was your actual kid or something. And I know you know some white magic along with all that black, so I guess you'd want to help her the most."

"Only a little white magic. Just enough to heal her." He paused, the gears of thought turning in his mind. "But how would you know that? None of you even believe in my craft."

"I do." He looked up at Die over the thick wire of his spectacles. His large eyes looked sad and hurt. "I've always believed in what you do." He shrugged. "I had the whole luck power thing going on before the Felt, it sort of runs in the family. When I came here, all they really did was amplify it. I'd be a hypocrite to say magic wasn't real."

Die was overcome with a feeling of deep and sudden kinship. Someone else in this detestable place knew. He was not alone. _He was not alone_.

"Clover, I..." The tight feeling of awkwardness began to creep into his mind. He wasn't usually into men – into anyone, really – but he had the abrupt desire to touch Clover's face, to kiss his tiny mouth. "May I..."

He trailed off, too scared to ask.

Clover cocked his head, his eyes wide and curious behind his glasses. "May you what?"

Die swallowed nervously. He bony shoulders shook in fear of what Clover might say. Die had never met someone who understood before, and neither had he ever felt this way about anyone, especially so suddenly. Everything was terrifying. "Clover, I would just like to, perhaps, may I kiss your cheek?"

Die cringed at the sound of his own request. It sounded bad in his head, and even worse once spoken aloud. He would never be able to socialize correctly, not even when faced with someone with whom he had common ground. Die hated himself for being such a social idiot.

Clover blushed and then, to Die's surprise, did not look away. He merely smiled shyly. "I don't see why that would be a problem. But, please, Die, don't forget her."

He glanced over at the injured cat, waiting silently in the box with her miserable, emerald eyes.

Die wouldn't forget her; he could never forsake a cat in need, but first, he needed his kiss. He was curious to know companionship, and in his heart had always desired it. Now it was here before him and he was shocked and terrified, but also so excited. There was something exhilarating about taking that first step into the chasm that fell away into the unknown.

Die reached out with his lengthy, thin fingers to gently brush them against Clover's cheek. Die had never touched the skin of anyone but himself, and it was strange yet comforting to feel the soft, heated skin of another beneath the tips of his fingers. It felt so _right_.

He began to draw his companion in for the kiss, but still feeling awkward, he kept his gaze averted, focused on a blank spot on the wall. Even with that alien feeling of rightness flowing throughout his body, tickling his innards and making him feel eager for something he could scarcely understand, the very act of what he was about to do still scared the wits out of him. He feared that perhaps Clover was still only humoring the socially inept fool who was so desperate for companionship he would take it upon himself to kiss his co-worker.

But a tiny hand came up to touch Die's cheek, and turn his face sideways, so their eyes finally met. There was pity there behind the wire rims, but not the condescending kind Die feared. "You needn't fear me like that." He gave Die his sunniest, gap-toothed grin.

How long had Clover's smile been that cute? Die could hardly remember, however, he could scarcely recall ever finding someone's smile to be that cute.

"I know, I j-just..." He nibbled is bottom lip. Still intimidated.

"How about a kiss on the lips, then?" He smiled mischievously and winked. "Just to show you there's nothing to fear."

Die sucked in a sharp breath and his eyes widened. On the lips? It sounded splendid, that much he would not deny. But to kiss Clover when he couldn't even muster up the courage to kiss his cheek? It seemed impossible, everything was impossible. He should have just ignored the desire in the first place and concentrated solely on the cat. Everything Die ever tried to do involving his gangmates was a mistake. He did not deserve to make any of them into friends.

"No. No, no. J-just forget it, Clover. I'm sorry I ever suggested it. I'll just get back to the ki –"

Something soft, warm, and tasting slightly of mint pressed itself to his lips, cutting off his fervent protests. And it wasn't scary. It was shocking, for the alien feeling that spread across Die's chest when their lips touched was unlike anything he'd ever felt, but it wasn't scary. It was nice and it was warm, and Die wondered, even as he pulled away, if he might be able to do it again some day, if he would keep his courage and do this strange thing again with Clover.

Die stared at Clover, still in a state of pleasant shock from the kiss. "Uh...Uh...T-thank you. That was n-nice."

Awkward, always awkward. Die gritted his teeth, fearing that his clunky response had already served to destroy the delicate thing that had just been built between them.

Clover smiled, and further shocked Die when he reached up to take Die's hand in his own. He gave the long, scrawny fingers a reassuring squeeze. "Indeed. But you need to lighten up a bit. You'll never have any fun if you don't learn to let go of your fears." He let go of Die's hand, and looked towards the box perched on the edge of the bed. "Now, let's help her. We got a cat to save."

"_We_?" Dumbfounded, Die shakily pointed at himself and then at Clover. "Y-you wish to stay and w-watch? I-I mean, you can, b-but I don't see w-why you would want to– "

Clover held up a tiny finger and winked. "Remember what I said, Die."

Die tensed his narrow shoulders in response, and then, with agonizing slowness, let himself relax. "Lighten up. Right." He let out a hissing breath between his teeth. "Okay, this r-ritual is a little strange. I'm actually going to have to paint my walls. Uh, are you sure you want to stay?"

He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and shrugged. "Got nothing else to do today."

"Let's get to it, then." For the first time in a long time, Die's face wore an elusive smile.

And as he stepped towards his desk to retrieve his paint, Die saw, littering the floor, the torn remains of his Tarot cards. He lifted his foot, and beneath the shoe was the tattered picture of The Lovers. He'd peace the cards back together later; they deserved at least that much as an apology. Because he had been right from the very beginning, and he had just been to blind to see it.

After all, the cards never lied.


End file.
